


The Darkly Forgotten

by ThetaWolfe



Series: The Lost and Forgotten [2]
Category: Farscape, Pitch Black (2000)
Genre: Death, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaWolfe/pseuds/ThetaWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John does not know how he gets himself into these kinds of situations, it's almost like someone is out to get him. New universe, new planet, new monsters. He almost wished this job had come with a brochure or a manual of some sort. With monsters under the ground, a convict in the shadows, and clueless citizens running around, Crichton has just about had it. It may be rude to shoot people but he is two microts away from just saying frell it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pursuit

_“Television has brought back murder into the home - where it belongs.”_

_-Alfred Hitchcock_

0~Page_Break~0

Cycle 3/351

Universe 001

System M-334/G

_They say most of your brain shuts down in cryo-sleep.  All but the primitive side…the animal side.  No wonder I’m still awake._

_Transporting me with civilians.  Sounded like forty, forty plus.  Heard an Arab voice, some hoodoo holy man.  Probably on his way to New Mecca.  But what route?_

_What route?_

_Smelled a woman.  Sweat, boots, tool belt, leather.  Prospector type, free settlers.  And they only take the back routes._

_here was a man, could feel his eyes on me.  Carrying some type of weapon, gun, ammo left my nose twitching._

_And here’s my real problem: Mr. Johns, blue eyed devil.  Planning on taking me back to slam…only this time he picked a ghost lane._

_A long time between stops…A long time for something to go wrong._

0~Page_Break~0

Rovhu trailed listlessly in space nearly an entire metra behind the Hunter-Gratzner, just outside of its proximity alarm.  The ship was old, metal rusting in places, but still functional.  The leviathan hated that his commander was on that ship, asleep, alone, and unprotected.

As the weekens turned to monens he had started to become anxious.  He had never gone more than five solar days without his commander.  This time it had been twenty-two weekens since he had talked to the once-human.  Rovhu had never been alone before…he did not like the feeling.

Even when the once-human had days where he did nothing but stare at the stars, Rovhu could still feel his presence, could still monitor his vitals and take comfort in him simply being there.  But now the commander was out of reach of his sensors, out of touch.  It left an uneasy feeling inside the leviathan and he swayed back and forth behind the merchant ship as if to shake off the sensation.

Although not truly alone, Rovhu thought that the DRDs were poor company compared to his commander.  Sadly, even the mismatched 1812 could not lighten his mood.

His time was not spent idly though.  Rovhu had had his little purple DRDs trying to patch and repair what was wrong with his shields, but unfortunately he needed Crichton for such a thing.  Eventually he commanded them to simply stop and gave them other tasks, worried that they would somehow make it worse. 

Just a weeken and a half shy of being four cycles old, Rovhu was over a third of Moya’s size.  He already had five fully accessible tiers and an additional two that only his DRDs could access at the moment.  Two fully functioning hangers on either side connected to the maintenance bays.  The kitchen was fully operational and Rovhu had even assigned several DRDs to keep the area maintained so Crichton would have something other than food cubes to eat when he came back.

He only had two dozen personal quarters at the moment, unlike Moya who had nearly seven hundred, but he knew that when he was older he would grow more.  At the moment they did not seem like a priority, aside from Crichton he did not have a crew.  Instead he sent his energy on growing the mess hall that was hardly ever used.

The recreational area had never been visited by his commander but he was in the war room nearly as often as he was in his personal chambers.  The observatory was Crichton’s favorite room and Rovhu was pleased with himself when he decided to place that room as a priority.  He had nearly ten storage rooms, one was only half grown but the other nine were complete, even if the commander only used three of them. 

The medical bay had yet to see Crichton aside from when he was in there to stock up on supplies, thankfully.  Although prone to trouble, the once-human had yet to have an injury that required more than an antiseptic and healing spray. 

He had two communal bathing areas complete with six shower stalls on two separate tiers.  The bathing quarters nearest to the commander even had a large bathtub that he had grown after Crichton commented on the lack of one too many times.  Crichton would never say it, but he got a little teary eyed when he saw it at first.  It was even hooked up to the water reservoir and had little jets.

The hydroponics lab on tier four was Rovhu’s idea.  His commander had been discussing how to make more chakan oil and finally stated that he would just have to grow some on his own.  After nearly seven monens the leviathan had it completed.  Currently there were over two dozen different types of fruits and vegetables waiting to be transferred into the half full garden that had once been an empty storage room.  Unfortunately none of them were tannot root or anything close to it as Crichton had yet to find a substitute.

As he programmed several of his DRDs to begin preparing to transfer the small plants he thought upon his newest project.  He was trying to build an armory for the commander but it was slow going.  He simply could not settle on a design and even thought about using one of the many other rooms that had no purpose as of yet. 

The rest of his energy was spent on building another transport pod as he only had the one.  With the commander’s prowler he was unsure if he needed it, but he ordered his DRDs to begin anyway.  There was little to do as they followed behind the merchant vessel, and it was always better to have more of something than not enough.

The majority of the other rooms were for keeping Rovhu functioning and were heavily guarded with his internal security system.  Crichton had even programmed it so that he would be denied access if he did not input a code.  The once-human had stated that if he did not enter a code either he was an imposter and should be detained, or he was in no state to be allowed into the room in the first place. 

Rovhu had only seen Crichton drunk once, but that experience was more than enough.  The commander had a terrible habit of building things while inebriated, and the experiments he had worked on were neither safe nor sensible.  So the leviathan implemented the extra security because he had to agree, he wanted the commander nowhere near his delicate systems and parts under such influence.

As he checked his sensors, Rovhu contemplated what life would be like without his commander.  Already it was rather dull, but for just a moment, a nanomicrot really, he entertained the idea of just leaving, maybe going off to do his own thing and then meeting up with Crichton when they docked on Helion Prime.  The commander would never know, and there were still nineteen weekens out, he could get away with it.

Just then, at that moment where the narl was really considering his first show of childish rebellion, his scanner pinged at him.  The tail of a comet came into view and the Hunter-Gratzner was heading straight for it.  It appeared that even in cyro-sleep, John Crichton’s luck was set to trouble.

Rovhu moved to intercept, even with shields down.  He could not leave his commander alone for a microt.  The man was a black hole when it came to trouble, he just pulled it in like a gravitational force.  But he was worth it, Crichton was worth everything.


	2. Cruelty of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cycle 3/351: The ship crashed, of course it did. At least I got to see her. She had her face, her voice, but it wasn't her. It doesn't matter, she is the closest thing I have seen of Aeryn in nearly four cycles. Now if only this planet wasn't giving me the heebie-jeebies. I just hope my luck will hold out, but who knows...it never does.

_"Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."_

_-Douglas Adams_

0~Page_Break~0

Cycle 3/351

Universe 001

Planet M6-117

When John came awoke from cryo it was not to what he was expecting.  He thought he would awaken gradually, maybe a little woozy, possibly a little nauseous.  Alright, so what he imagined was not exactly pleasant but it was a far sight better than how he did wake from cryo-sleep.  It was the pain that caught his attention first.

His shoulder ached like he had tried to slam it into something and though he did feel woozy, it was not induced by the cryo-drug but by the fact that all his blood was rushing to his head since he was upside down.

_Wait…_

That realization brought some of his awareness back and John snapped open his eyes to take in his surroundings.  He was indeed upside down.  At first he thought that the ship had flipped, but after taking in the hazardous view outside the glass, he concluded that it was his chamber that was upside down.  Small mercy, he did not want to think about the entire ship being topsy-turvy.

Ears ringing loudly, he twisted himself around as best he could in the confined space, knee jerking into the surprisingly sturdy glass and handle pressing harshly into his back.  Crichton reached for the handle as he swayed in place, dizzy and a little disoriented.  When he pulled it the red lever came loose and he stared at it uncomprehending in his hand for a long while before he realized it had broken off. 

Grunting in frustration, he tossed it aside before bracing his upper back against the pod.  Raising a booted foot, he pressed his knee into his chest and kicked with as much strength as he could.  As there was little room to work with it took nearly six tries to get enough force to crack the glass.

It was the eighth kick that shattered it and Crichton tumbled from the locker in surprise, collapsing onto the broken floor, small shards of broken glass trying to cut into his skin.  He bit off a cry of pain as he landed on his injured shoulder, barely avoiding a rather sharp piece of metal that Crichton was positive used to be a support beam.  Only a slight whimper of pain was allowed to pass his lips, nothing louder.  After cycles of waking in unknown and dangerous situations with enemies about, he had learned caution.  Drawing attention to himself before he assessed the situation was unwise and possibly perilous to his health.

_I rather like my health…it keeps me healthy._

He stood slowly, a hand pressing against his head and coming away slick with blood.  Head injuries were never a good sign, but Crichton sighed in relief when he poked at the cut above his temple in his hair line.  It was shallow and had already started clotting.  The area around it was a little bruised but not overly tender.  He doubted he had a concussion.

His shoulder was the main cause for concern.  Left arm hanging limp, Crichton checked that he could move all of his fingers before he started to examine just how bad the damage was.  His fingers could move with minimal pain, but if he tried to move any part of his arm his shoulder burned like someone was digging a hot poker into the joint.

 _Not a broken bone then…must be dislocated.  Oh, this is going to be fun_.

John hated his inner voice there, just a little bit.  The bastard was more sarcastic than he was.  Pressing away the thought that had made no sense, he shifted back to his cryo-tube.  Grabbing the edge and yanking, he was satisfied that it did not move even a little.  It was crude, but it would do.  Bracing himself for the pain, he shifted to the side and counted to three in his head before surging forward, slamming his shoulder into the metal.

The pain was agony, fire shooting from his nerves.  A low groan escaped his throat against his will, sliding past his chapped lips and drowning out the grind and click as his shoulder popped back into place.  His eyes darted to his surroundings even as he fell to his knees in pain, cryo-tube taking most of his weight.  He could see no one nearby and he only relaxed after a moment when he realized the noise he had made did not draw anyone to his position.

Shoulder now fixed, Crichton decided it was past time to get his head in the game and take stock of the frelled up situation he was in.  Fingers ghosting over his guns, he felt himself sigh in relief when both Winona and Amanda were found safely in their holsters.  Wiggling his ankles allowed him to confirm that his new blade and interchangeable screwdriver were also still in place.

_Other than the shoulder, this isn’t so bad._

He had thought too soon.  Crichton cursed himself as he took in his surroundings.  The merchant vessel he had bought passage on was a wreck.  Debris and pieces of the ship were littered all over the floor.  Some of the ship’s outside was inside.  Cryo-tubes were splayed haphazardly about the cabin, and as he turned to look towards the back he realized that it was missing.  The back had been ripped away, torn from the ship and exposing them to the elements.

_Please tell me I did not just jinx my janx._

Light was streaming in from what Crichton could now tell were ruptures in the hull, but the majority of the light came from the back of the ship that was mostly open to the outside.  The Hunter-Gratzner had crashed.  On the bright side he had clearly survived the crash, and he could hear that others had as well.

Pushing himself up, Crichton stood slowly, allowing himself to rest against the chamber momentarily as the room started to spin.  He was beginning to rethink the concussion but he then realized it was a lack of air.  It would seem that his luck had once again won out.  They may have crashed on a planet with breathable air, but just barely.  With how thin it was and how hard his lungs were working, he estimated that the planet had maybe fifteen percent oxygen.

A quiet but steady beep finally registered in his hearing as the ringing in his ears had stopped.  Trembling fingers reached for the small black comm unit _–not gold–_ under his coat and he tapped a fingertip to the face of it.  Musical trilling burst out of the unit, too fast for Crichton to make any sense of it.

“Hey, hey,” he smiled softly, a frown trying to tug at his lips as _not gold_ kept trying to press into his mind.  “Slow down, I can’t understand you.”

The chirps that followed were much slower, almost to the degree that it was insulting, but Crichton smiled despite it.  “I’m fine, really.  Just a few bumps and scrapes…what in the hezzmona happened?”

The frown finally succeeded in pulling the corner of his lips down.  “A comet…this far into the shipping lanes?  Huh,” he paused as Rovhu’s confirmation chirp.  “Can you arrange for a pickup?”

When Rovhu’s musical language met his ears and had taken the half second to translate, John’s heart nearly leapt into his throat.  The leviathan had been damaged because his shield had been offline.  Multiple hull breaches along tiers two and three.  Though the damage was not extensive nor debilitating, he could not enter the atmosphere until either the shield was fixed or the ruptures in the hull were repaired.

“Frell,” he mumbled softly, eying an empty but overturned cryo-tube.  Once he was sure that his legs would hold him and he was no longer feeling like he was aboard a boat during a storm, he cautiously made his way over to it and sat down.

Eyes darting around the broken passenger cabin, Crichton could not stop his hand from trailing along the back of Winona’s grip.  He could not see anybody, but he could not shake the feeling of being watched.  It was unsettling.

“Alright,” he continued after a moment, convincing himself that he was just paranoid.  “Get the DRD’s to repair the damage, I’ve got a bad feeling about this place…the creepy no good kind.  And keep a low profile, I don’t want anyone to find out about you, even if you can’t land.  People do stupid things when they get desperate, the last thing I need is for them to find out I have a ship.  I’ll check back in…in about five arns.  Stay safe.”

After Rovhu had bid him good luck, Crichton deactivated his comm and placed it inside his pocket.  Scrubbing a hand down his tired face, John allowed himself a moment, just a few microts really, to panic and feel overwhelmed.  After those few microts, he forced his game face on and forced himself to his aching and tired feet before making his way to where he heard voices.

He never saw the pair of silver shined eyes tracking his movement from the shadows.

0~Page_Break~0

_So the man has a ship…interesting._

The strange musical notes that came from the communication unit were curious.  Riddick had never heard of a code like it before, but the man clearly had no problem deciphering it.  Curiosity nagged at him and he wondered why the man had someone following him on a ship.  The Hunter-Gratzner was not worth much, and the furyan wondered if maybe the man was a raider, but it did not seem to fit him.

Perhaps he was a merc hoping to steal Johns’ payday but that occupation seemed to fit him even less.  The man had done no more than give Riddick’s cryo-tube a passing glance.  His heart rate did not increase and the convict could scent no adrenaline.  One would think that this man had no idea about Johns and his cargo.

Riddick watched passively as the strange man walked over to the group of survivors.  He was intrigued by the other, and Riddick was not intrigued easily.  The way he carried himself reminded him much of Johns, before he started using.  But Riddick doubted that he was mercenary.  The man was too clean…too unstable.

Nostrils flaring, Riddick tilted his head and leaned out of the shadows far enough to catch the man’s scent.  It was an odd combination, spicy almost, but with a hint of something sweet like honey.  There was something else there too, something more subtle and easily missed if he was not paying attention.  It smelled alien, it smelled like chaos.

He smirked, a predator’s grin of teeth as he watched the man until he could see him no longer.  The beast inside him stood to attention and Riddick felt his fingers twitching for a blade.  It had been a long time since someone had enticed him to play.

Movement from further back had the convict retreating further into the shadows.  It seemed Johns was waking up.  A pity really, but if Riddick could not play with the newcomer, perhaps Billy was up to the task.  After all, the merc was a hell of a player and even Riddick had to give credit to the man’s strategy.  He would have never pegged that Johns would have killed a kid in order catch a payday.

_Looks like you learn somethin’ new every day._

0~Page_Break~0

 

Crichton carefully maneuvered around the broken pieces of the ship until he was right in the middle of the voices he had heard calling.  There were three young boys speaking what he thought was Arabic helping an older man out from under some rubble.  They called him Imam, but Crichton got the impression that it was a title more than a name.

Seeing that they had things under control, John left them for the two who were trying to pry open another locker.  Making his way to the other side of the chamber, he helped brace it with another man while the woman cut it open with a blow torch.  Seconds later the lid popped and a young prepubescent boy tumbled out.

“So,” the kid stated, staring up at them from his position on the floor.  “I guess something went wrong.”

“You would guess right,” a voice said, and John turned to the woman as she pulled off the welding mask.  It was _her_ voice, _her_ face, and he took a half step towards her before vertigo hit and the man next to him grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Ya alright there, mate?” The woman, Aeryn _–not Aeryn, can’t be Aeryn–_ asked as Crichton finally got his legs under him.  Those words helped steady him and he was able to look past the image of his wife to see the one before him.

_Not Aeryn._

It wasn’t Aeryn, she spoke with _her_ voice and smiled with _her_ face but it was not his wife.  The voice was right but the words were wrong, the face was younger and the hair was brown, not black, and it curled.

_Aeryn’s hair never curled…Chiana hated that._

Her eyes were beginning to narrow as he continued to stare at her and Crichton finally found his voice as the others turned to him curiously.  He hated the attention, so he cleared his throat and tried to talk around it.

“Sorry, you just really look like someone I used to know,” he smiled at her, body relaxed as he tried to come off as not a threat.  She smiled back but it was not _her_ smile, and somehow that made it easier to look at her.  “My name’s Crichton.” He did not say his first name, could not bear to hear it with _her_ voice.

“Shazza,” she replied, shaking his hand in a grip that was rougher than he was used to.  “And this here is my Zeke.”

Crichton turned to the other man who still had a hand on his arm to keep him steady.  Smiling at the older man, he chuckled softly as they shook hands.  Zeke was graying in the hair and around his beard, but he was still fit.  His hand was as rough as his wife’s and John suspected that they did a lot of outdoor work.

“I’m Jack,” the kid popped up between them and John could not keep himself from smiling.  The boy did not shake his hand, but the way he held was of someone used to getting grabbed, so Crichton did not push it.  Instead he just sort of waved and let the boy keep his distance.

A shout from the front of the cabin had them all turning at once.  Placing a steady hand on Winona’s grip, he followed after them.  The bridge of the Hunter-Gratzner was in even worse condition than the passenger hold.  Sparks were flying from ruined terminals, the pilot’s section buried beneath sand, and anything that had not been secured now lay in broken pieces about the floor.

“Don’t touch!” A man screamed, and as Crichton pushed his way to the front of the group he could see it came from the one that had assisted him into the cryo-chamber.  Owens, he remembered, the navigations officer.  “Don’t you touch that handle!”

A female crew member he did not recognize was crouched over him, hands trembling and fingers quickly skating away from the large piece of metal protruding from Owens’ chest.  He was still strapped to his chair, broken and lying on his back, blood coughing up with every word he shouted.

“Get it out of him!” Zeke shouted, pressing up against some pipes as if to physically keep himself from marching over and ripping the metal bar from his chest.

“No, no,” Shazza interrupted.  “It’s too close to his heart.”

Owens was opening and closing his mouth, harsh breaths through bloody teeth.  The other crew member could only look on helplessly as each second drew by, pulling her friend closer and closer to death.  “There’s some anestaphine in the med locker in the back of the cabin,” she said after a moment.  Although she spoke to the group, her eyes did not leave Owens’ pale face.

“Not any more there’s not,” a man squirrely looking man informed her.  He was rale thin, hairline receding and broken glasses perched on his aristocratic nose.

For several really long seconds only Owens’ painfully gasps for air could be heard.  “Get out of here,” the pilot murmured, voice soft as the others began to shift uncomfortably.  “Everyone…get out of here.”

Zeke went first, followed quickly by his wife.  The squirrely man and boy went with them.  For a moment only Crichton and a man in blue uniform with a badge were left, but the cop followed soon after.  The pilot glanced up at him, her teeth clenched as she prepared to scream at him, but Crichton only raised his hands and crouched down close to her.

“I can help,” he murmured softly, words almost drowned out by Owens’ harsh pants.

The woman glared at him, blue eyes peaking beneath her blonde fringe.  “How?” She asked after a moment.

Crichton gestured to the dying man, face soft as he kneeled on the heated metal.  “He’s going to die, but it won’t be quick-”

“So what,” she interrupted, voice harsh in the quiet of the room.  “You want to just kill him?!”

Reaching forward slowly, he placed a calming hand on her shoulder and waited out her anger.  The cooling metal clicked and popped around them as she gradually started to relax, eyes returning to her friend.  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered the words as if speaking them any louder would give them form.  Tears rushed to her eyes, hands gripping at Owens’ arm as if to physically keep him from death.  “I don’t know what to do.”

“Hold his hand,” Crichton told her, watching her come apart as she fought for control.  After a moment, she did as he told her.  Gripping Owens’ cold hand between her two, she tried to make eye contact with him as she whispered words of reassurance, but the man’s glazed eyes darted around quickly, seeing something that they could not.  Crichton allowed her a moment as he gathered himself to do what was necessary. 

Reaching forward, he placed one hand on Owens’ free arm to hold it down and the other over his mouth and nose.  It took a moment, but Owens soon started to struggle beneath them and the pilot’s choked off sobs drowned out any other sound as Crichton suffocated him.  It only took a minute, but it was the longest minute of Carolyn’s life as Owens’ eyes went wide and then his whole body stilled.  Seconds later he was dead.

Crichton left her then, standing and walking out as she grieved for her dead crewmember.  Her sobs followed him down the hall in accusation, damning him for his actions.  His heart had twisted painfully in his chest as he killed the man, but he knew the only other option was allowing him to die an even slower, more painful death.

He exited the ship quickly, stepping through a large hole in the ship’s side.  The change in light stunned him for a moment and the nictitating membrane slid over his eyes to drown out the brightness.  Crichton stood there for several long moments, face turned to the sky as he took in the heat.  After a while his eyes adjusted to the light and his third eyelid slid back.

It was nearly twenty degrees hotter outside the shade of the broken ship and Crichton’s fingers automatically began to unclasp his jacket.  The leather would protect him from the sun, but it would more than likely kill him with heat stroke.  The coat would have to go.

Turning around, John made his way back inside, the shadows and sudden temperature change causing the bare flesh of his arms to break out in goosebumps.  Stopping just inside the threshold, he looked at his jacket bunched up in his fist and wondered what to do with it.  He did not want to leave it, but dragging it around was impractical.  After a moment he decided to just toss it.  He had many more back home on Rovhu.

_Home /_ _hōm/ Noun meaning not Moya._

When had that happened?  When had Rovhu become home?  He had always thought of Moya as home, Aeryn was home, but now… It did not matter.  There was no more Moya, no more Aeryn.  Rovhu was all he had left of his old universe.

_Can’t go back, can never go back._

John cursed himself before he threw the jacket across the hold as if to throw his thoughts along with it.  It landed with a dull thud and movement from the corner of his eyes caused him to turn.  There was a man, another survivor with his back to him, sitting in front of a support beam.  Crichton tilted his head curiously, gaze darting out to the broken hole then back to the man.  He wondered why he was not with the rest of the group.

Crichton was curious, but he also knew where his curiosity got him – usually into more trouble – so he was fully prepared to turn and leave.  But, like always curiosity won out.  He approached slowly, taking in the awkwardness of the man’s posture.  Something about the situation was not right.

The man tilted his shaved head towards him as if to track him by sound, but he did not rise from his position.  Stumbling over a locker and catching himself on the beam, Crichton saw why.  The man was a prisoner.

The sight made him pause, leaning over the man as his mind tried to take in what he was seeing.  A blindfold obscured the prisoner’s vision and a metal bit pulled his lips back uncomfortably far.  His arms were bound behind his back, shackled to the beam that John was balanced against.  His cuffed wrists forcing his shoulders at an angle that made Crichton’s own tender joint throb in sympathy.

_A few more degrees up and they’ll be dislocated.  Can’t be comfortable._

He blinked, images of the aurora chair, Scorpius, being tortured and imprisoned played out behind his eyelids and he stumbled back at their reminder.  Snapping his eyes open, his gaze darted from one barely lit spot to the other, willing the darkness in his mind to stay chained as he tried to gather himself back into the moment.

Moving slowly, John crouched in front of the man, watching intently as the prisoner tilted his head as if to watch him through the blindfold.  His chest inflated, inhaling deeply as his nostrils flared and John thought he resembled a dog picking up a scent.  He shook off the bizarre behavior, settling upon his heels barely a foot away.  He had seen stranger behavior, even out of people he knew, like that time Chiana’s body was invaded by the ghost like alien that had wanted to _taste_ him.

“What the frell?” He whispered, quiet words passing his lips no louder than a breath.  Crichton’s fingers extended, almost touching the metal bit pressed into the cheek before he drew it away.  “Why would…” no, he knew why.  People are cruel, humans even more so.  No other creature in the universe, be it animal or beast, could be so artistically cruel as that of man.

The prisoner was bound, displayed within the cabin where anyone could come and go.  Like an animal on display at the zoo; a circus lion, teeth removed and skin covered in scars, caged and beaten, made to do tricks, but not tame…never tame.  It left a bitter feeling in his gut, heart burning in such hate that it honestly surprised him.  Not even to his own enemies had Crichton been so callous.

The man before him shifted and Crichton was brought back to the reality of himself.  “Sorry,” he apologized softly, hoping to come across as sympathetic and not someone who had been gawking like a child at a caged bear.  “I had a moment, was having…probably still am.  It’s just,” he floundered, unsure of what to do or say.  “My name’s Crichton,” he finally settled, deciding to skirt past the fact that he had been staring.  “I’d shake your hand but you look a little tied up at the moment.”

The prisoner huffed in amusement and Crichton grinned despite himself.  He stumbled on what to say next, conversation had not been one of his strong points in a while.  Living on a bio-mechanoid did little for his social skills.  Mostly, he just talked at the narl, or 1812, or more often than not, himself.  He was lost on what to do in a situation such as this.

Part of him wanted to release the bound man, being held captive was something he was uncomfortably used too.  Another wanted to know what kind of person he was first.  Crichton knew that there had to be a reason for the man being detained as he was, and he felt like he should know what that reason was before he just went about releasing people.  On the other hand, D’Argo, Rygel, and Zhaan had all been prisoners, and they were the best thing that had ever happened to him…some more than others.

In the end he did not have to do anything at all as his musings were interrupted rather hostilely by a southern drawl.  “The fuck you doin?!”

Crichton raised his blue eyes, _blue_ suddenly flooding his vision as he took in the people before him.  The woman was dismissed quickly, the pilot still shaking from her crew member’s death.  The other had him standing slowly, movements deliberate as he stood casually and relaxed over the bound man.

The _officer_ before him _–blue jacket, blue pants, red hair, shiny badge–_ was twitchy, eyes _–bloodshot, pupils dilated–_ darting around the room erratically.  They settled on the prisoner the longest as if to make sure his chains had not mysteriously come loose.  His hand shook, lowering slowly and hovering over a holstered pistol.

John frowned at him, the corner of his lips pulling down as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, deliberately leaving himself open.  He cocked out a hip, purposefully displaying his own gun while shifting his weight, preparing to dodge if he needed too.  Crichton appeared relaxed and at ease, but those in the room could tell he was anything but.  If the man before him drew his weapon, John was ready to react in a moment’s notice.

They stared at each other of for a long while, the cop with his flashy pistol and shiny badge, and Crichton in his leather pants, black shirt, and severe attitude.  Fry shifted uncomfortably next to the officer, drawing both their attention away and breaking the tension that had flooded the room.  She sighed in relief when Johns wiped the sweat from his slick palm and crossed his own arms, leaning almost casually against the bridge doorframe.

“Name’s Johns, William Johns,” he drawled, smirk playing on his lips as Crichton’s frown deepened.  “This is Carolyn Fry, our captain.”

Blue eyes flicked to the young woman, her throat bobbing as she swallowed _–blue pulsing along carotid, too fast–_ her eyes wide and hollow during the introduction.  She raised a trembling hand as if either to present it to shake or to wave, but she dropped it before Crichton could figure out which.

“Crichton,” he intoned, voice flat.  One word, either first or last they did not know and he did not elaborate.  “Who’s this?” He tilted his head down to indicate the bound man that kneeled before him.

“That there is Richard B. Riddick,” Johns smirked, his bloodshot eyes lighting up with what Crichton thought was pride as they all took in the painful and inhuman way that Riddick was bound.  “He escaped from slam, I’m takin’ him back.”

_Words of poison, viper in the hen house._

Crichton raised an eyebrow but did not comment.  An awkward silence fell over the group before the young and newly appointed captain spoke up trying to ease the tension once more.  “Is he dangerous?” She questioned, voice slightly uneven as her hands clenched into fists to stop their shaking.

Johns smirked at her, a shark’s grin of white teeth, and replied, “Only to humans.”

He was trying to scare her and from what Crichton could see it was working.  She turned away, looking back into the dark cockpit as if to find some normalcy in the completely abnormal situation.

_Further down the rabbit hole, I wonder how far it truly goes._

Crichton pushed himself away from Riddick, forcing himself to walk passed the bound man and not comment on the inhuman way being used to contain him.  The last thing he needed to do was make waves with the person that all the survivors recognized as the captain and another with a weapon that was possibly more unstable than he himself was.

He cursed quietly as he made his way outside, letting the Arabic cadence of prayer ease his tension, wishing desperately that Rovhu could get his hull patched quickly.  The planet was giving him the heebie-jeebies and the people even more so.

_Further and further down._


End file.
